


The Other Side of the River

by thephilosophersapprentice



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi | Spirited Away
Genre: Gen, I can make it about sibling relationships if I want, Non-Graphic Torture, because miyazaki said specifically that this movie is NOT focused around romance, it's all platonic in here today lads, it's my AU, smoking mention, the spirited away au you didn't know you wanted, very brief smoking by a very minor character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26788879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thephilosophersapprentice/pseuds/thephilosophersapprentice
Summary: Alphonse Elric came to find his father and save his dying mother. Things are never really that simple.In a world full of strangers and fairy tales, the younger son forges his own path.The Spirited Away AU no one asked for, in celebration of October 3.
Relationships: Alphonse Elric & Edward Elric
Comments: 14
Kudos: 21





	1. The Bathhouse

**Author's Note:**

> This almost got titled "Over the River and Through the Woods, to Hohenheim's House We Go." I think everyone is glad it didn't, not just me.

Alphonse stared into the dark tunnel. He could see nothing on the other side. The wind sighed and hummed around him, pushing him toward it.

 _I’m not ready_ , he told himself. _Not just yet_.

 _It’s the dirt road with the small shrines and the temple gate leaning against the tree,_ Mom had said. _Then you’ll walk for a long time until you see the two-faced stone in the middle of the road and the tunnel._

Al took a deep breath and the first step. In a few minutes, he could see nothing in the unlit tunnel. He touched the heavy notepaper Mom had given him with the instructions; it crinkled slightly under his touch. A few minutes more with no sound but the echo of his own footfalls and the gentle sigh of the wind, and he could see a faint glimmer of light up ahead. He hadn’t been in a train station since he was very young, but this looked like one, albeit without the ticket booths.

Al kept walking, out into the sunny day.

_That’s funny. It was overcast on the other side…_

It was quiet, the grass deep and unmown. Small red-and-yellow flowers swayed in the wind on tall stalks. Al was careful to watch his step, avoiding gopher holes. Old buildings—maybe old houses?—were scattered around, their walls and roofs stripped of paint by wind and weather. The place was sad and lonely. He could see no birds; the only movement was a windmill spinning, a section of tin roofing banging in the low wind.

Al found a path and followed it up the hillside. He was glad he’d worn his “hiking shoes.” His other pair of old tennis shoes would never have stood up to this treatment. He cautiously picked his way across a nearly-dry creek bed, tiptoeing around the stones and testing each before he put his weight on it. It looked as though it had been dry since at least the last heavy rain; sticks and leaves were caught in places between the rocks. Continuing up along the steep hillside, he kept a sharp eye out for tangled grass that could trip him. It was almost as soft as walking on a carpet of down, coating the ground thickly enough he could barely feel the harder earth.

The steps were cracked, mosses and greenery growing out around and below an old statue of a frog with its mouth open. Al kept to the side, avoiding the potentially slicker area in the center where water came down. Perhaps it was part of some sort of rain gutter system.

He’d found what seemed to be an old town street. Areas of it were so steep it had been built into slightly-irregular steps. The buildings were painted in shades of red and green and gold with scattered patches of blue, covered sidewalks behind a barrier to the main street, architecture that was old-fashioned and beautiful, crumbling but only in places. Alphonse kept walking, further into town. He caught the sharp, mouth-watering smell of food. His stomach growled, but he had his lunch in his backpack. He almost kept walking straight, but then realized that where there was freshly-cooked food, there had to be someone to make it. He followed the smell.

By the time he’d found the open stall, he was heartily sick of the smell. There was something off about it, something fresher and sharper than it should be, almost spicier. Alphonse walked up to the stall. “Hello? Is someone here?”

No one came.

Al sat down just outside and unwrapped his sandwich. Tuna salad. It tasted plain alongside the enticing smell from the stall, but Mom had put in a peach with it. Al finished his sandwich and bit into the peach, wiping hastily as the sticky, rich juice flooded over his chin and dripped down his arm. He finished the peach and licked the juice off his fingers, almost forgetting the food stall nearby.

Still no one came.

Al got up. “Hello?” he called, pulling his backpack up onto his shoulders again. Still no answer. He set off again uphill, feeling much better for the rest and food.

More shops and restaurants greeted him. Still he saw no one, not even birds or animals. There were only his own footsteps for company.

At the top of the steps at the end of the street stood a large lantern with red walls and a character molded on each side. Al kept walking. Hopefully he’d find someone who could direct him soon. Beyond it, there was a bridge. Alphonse started onto it, staring up at the enormous building at the other end. Peaked roofs, painted walls, the welcoming front of an old-fashioned bathhouse the likes of which he’d never seen before.

When he looked back, there was someone else on the other end of the bridge. An errant breeze swept up, tossing their long golden hair about their shoulders. There was something eerie about it, that silent figure where no one else had been all day. For a second, Al thought he was staring at himself from the outside. Then he thought he was hallucinating his own reflection into something it was not, but then the figure moved. As it advanced across the bridge, sun-touched hair flowing in the wind behind it, the shadow of the railing began to move and lengthen.

“What are you doing here?” the other boy demanded in a rough, sharp voice. “You don’t belong here. Go back!”

“What?” Al croaked. Something seemed wrong with his voice; he hadn’t spoken all day and his throat ached from disuse, from different air.

“Hurry! Get back across the river before they see you!”

“I can’t go!” Al argued hoarsely. “I came to find Van Hohenheim!”

The light was growing rapidly dimmer. Lanterns came on all around them. “They’re lighting the lamps,” the stranger said. “Go! Cross the river while you still can. I’ll distract them.”

Something about that strange voice seized Alphonse and hurled him into a run. He turned and ran back across the bridge, down the steep streets, through the maze, back toward the steps leading down the hillside. Lights came on all around as he ran. He slipped or stumbled on the steep streets, tumbling more than once. He felt a sharp pain in his elbow, in both knees, but he didn’t dare stop.

He couldn’t see the bottom of the stairs. He kept going, only stopping when he splashed waist deep into water. He slipped and almost slid deeper, but scrambled back onto the dry steps. The water was deep and cold despite the warmth of the day—the day that had completely gone.

It was now fully dark.

A long way away, Al could see lights reflected on the water; he could barely make out the backlit numerals of a clock tower. _That must be the train station._

Al stood shivering on the new riverbank, listening to the water rising to lap at the toes of his shoes. It all felt like a dream—

 _It’ll feel like a dream at first_ , Mom had said. _Maybe a hostile one. But I’m sure you’ll find your way. Our family always lands on its feet_.

Alphonse didn’t know what to do. He climbed back up a few steps, water dripping from his clothing. A boat three stories tall, its roof and railings edged with lanterns, was approaching across the water. Al watched as a long line of varied and brightly-colored shapes advanced onto the bank, climbing the hill toward him. Something whispered that he shouldn’t be here, that he should hide, but it was as if he’d been frozen in place. Al watched, holding his breath.

Some sense of familiarity tugged at him, as if he’d been here before.

Something splashed in the water. Al scrambled back up the steps and rushed to one side, out of the line of sight from the ferry. The air smelled sharply of spice and something he couldn’t identify. Alphonse forced himself to take deep breaths, but found no relief. His hands were like shadows—transparent.

_Mom, this is scarier than you said it would be._

Al collapsed onto his knees. The whole world around him felt strange and unfriendly.

“Deep breaths.” Al looked up. It was the long-haired boy from earlier. “You need to eat this.” He held out a berry on his palm—a palm that wasn’t flesh and blood. Alphonse didn’t have time to examine it more closely. He shook his head mutely. “You have to eat it, or you’ll fade away,” the boy said, more urgently. Growing impatient, the boy reached toward Al, his fingers sinking through Al’s shoulders without sensation. “See?” He popped the berry in Al’s mouth. Al bit down reflexively and the berry burst on his tongue. It was sour, but it pulled him back to himself. Al swallowed, not wanting to chew. The aftertaste slowly unraveled into more complex flavors, but he didn’t dwell on them. The boy touched Al’s shoulder, solid and real. “There you go.”

“What’s—who are you?” Al asked.

“Shhh,” the other boy hissed, covering Al with his body. From between the strands of loose golden hair, Al saw a birdlike shape hovering on the wind. “It’s looking for you,” the boy whispered. Several tense moments, then the boy stood. “Let’s go.”

“I can’t move,” Al gasped. It felt like there were invisible bands across his chest to keep him from breathing deeply. The boy dropped to one knee next to him.

“Water, wind and earth, unbind him,” he said in a soft, commanding voice. Al could suddenly breathe again. The boy pulled him to his feet. “Hurry.”

The boy pulled him into a sprint far faster than Al had ever run before, the earth seeming to roll away beneath them. They cut the very wind between them. The boy seemed to know where he was going, darting through a maze of alleyways, a barn, an abandoned kitchen, and the back gate of a garden. They didn’t stop even to open doors; the boy manipulated them with a flick of fingers from a distance. Al didn’t have time to stop and marvel. Somehow, he didn’t set a foot wrong or trip, despite the speed at which they flew.

They arrived at the top of the hill, next to the lantern that marked the entrance to the bathhouse. The boy pushed Al down behind the gate, making eye contact with him. There was something about those jeweled eyes that Al couldn’t quite place.

“As we cross the bridge, you have to hold your breath. I’ll shield you from their sight, but it’s delicate work. A single breath and it will shatter. They will be able to see you.”

Al nodded.

“I’ll tell you when to breathe,” the boy said. He pulled Al upright, opening the gate and leading Al into the procession. Just before they set foot on the bridge: “Deep breath, now.”

Al inhaled deeply and held it as they took their first step onto the bridge. The pressure of the other boy’s hand was a grounding weight, tethering him and keeping him from the sense of weightless vertigo. Alphonse had to squeeze in close to the boy’s side in order to pass through the crowd without brushing against any of the varied bright figures on the bridge. They passed a shadow wearing something resembling a theater mask and Alphonse felt a strange pulse of familiarity. _We’re the same_ , he thought.

Then the thought was overtaken by the need for air.

Al had to fight his instincts to keep walking at the same pace, not to rush, to keep from gasping in air. His head was beginning to feel stuffy and achy. He focused on counting his steps. The stranger squeezed his hand gently in reassurance and warning.

Suddenly their path was blocked. A frog jumped into the air in front of Al’s companion, shouting at the top of its lungs. “Master Ward! You’re back! Hey, everyone, Ward’s back!”

“Excuse me,” the boy said in a cold, sharp, tight voice, gesturing the frog aside. “Father doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Al could take it no longer. He gasped, sucking in breath. The frog peered around the boy. “What? A human—”

The boy made a sharp gesture with one hand, enveloping the frog in a dense, darkly iridescent bubble. He gripped Al’s hand as if to say _we’re for it now._

Al braced himself for a fight, but the boy dragged him off his feet. They _flew_ , low to the ground, from the edge of the bridge into a small garden to one side of the bridge, safely hidden behind another gate. The boy flicked said gate closed again behind them and pulled Al down behind a large hydrangea bush. Shouts started up on the bridge and through the entryway to the bathhouse.

Al crouched in the mulch behind the hydrangea. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I messed up.”

The boy gave him a half-smile. The expression didn’t reach those gleaming, too-bright jewel eyes. “No, you did just fine. We’re across the bridge, aren’t we?” The smile faded to seriousness. “Now, I’ll go distract them. Once it’s quieted down out there, go down the stairs—” The boy touched the center of Al’s forehead with a finger. There was a slight sense of pressure, then Al could see it in his mind’s eye—a gate swung open at the back of the garden, a narrow path that led along the side of the bathhouse, and then the stairs. They passed in a weightless flash, down to a lower door and a room that glowed a dull red.

“Go to the boiler room and ask the man who works there for a job. Don’t take no for an answer. If you don’t have a job here, the man who owns the bathhouse will be free to do whatever he pleases with you. Most people, he turns into animals. If you get a job, though, he can’t touch you.” The pressure of the boy’s finger was withdrawn. “Good luck, Alphonse.”

Shouts echoed into the garden. “Master Ward! Father wants to speak with you.” The boy stood up, glancing around to ensure they were still alone.

“Wait,” Al whispered after him. “How do you know my name?”

There was no reply. The gate by the bridge closed behind the boy.

“Calm down,” Al heard him outside, his voice dry and taut as if his nerves were strained with irritation or stress. There was none of the almost-warmth from when the boy had been talking to him. “I’m coming.”

* * *

It seemed like a long time before there was quiet again.

Once it seemed quieter, Al opened the back gate. It opened on a narrow walkway, just as the boy—Ward?—had shown him. Al followed it around, leaning against the wall to avoid the sheer drop into empty dark on the other side. Then he saw the stairs.

They looked much steeper than they had in Ward’s vision. Worse, there was no railing.

Al took a deep breath and nerved himself. He took a few cautious steps down. Gaining confidence, he took another step with less care.

It cracked alarmingly and shifted, sending Al onto the next step in a hurry.

That was a mistake. He tripped on air and went flying down the steps in a headlong, uncontrolled dash, heart in his mouth. Al gasped out a silenced shriek of fright.

Somehow, he didn’t fall off the building. His flight ended with him smacking into a wall face-first. Al just stood there, pressing himself firmly against the building and struggling to catch his breath, his heart beating wildly. The window over his head opened; Alphonse peered cautiously up. A frog-faced man with a mustache lounged against the windowsill; the air smelled suddenly of tobacco smoke as the creature exhaled the fume from a cigarette. Fortunately, the frog-man hadn’t noticed him. Al edged cautiously around the corner of the wall and out of sight from the window. Steeling himself, he faced his next set of stairs. He still wasn’t ready.

Al collapsed into a sitting position on the landing. _More_ stairs, still steep and without railings? He couldn’t do this. There was _no way_! He couldn’t fall again! He couldn’t _risk_ falling again.

Unbidden, Mom’s face—and, surprisingly, Ward’s—rose in his mind’s eye. _If I’m caught, I can’t help Mom._

Cautiously, Alphonse sat down on the top step, then edged himself onto the next one, adjusted his position, then was on to the next. It took an excruciatingly long time, but he could be patient.

Halfway down, he caught sight of a dark shape against the sky again. He pressed himself against the side of the building, hoping it wouldn’t spot him.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, it passed on. Pressing himself against the wall, Alphonse stood up, almost falling when the step was slippery with use and damp, but he persevered this time. Another lifetime passed on the stairs before he reached the bottom. There was the door, further along the ledge. Al stayed pressed against the wall until he reached it. His legs felt too weak and shaky to hold him on their own.

The door was heavy, its hinges stiff; Alphonse dragged it open and dodged, almost fell, inside before it could slam shut.

The passageway was hot and humid. Pipes led this way and that along the walls, occasionally giving off puffs of hot steam, some of them fragrant with varied herbal or floral or spicy scents. Hesitantly, Alphonse tiptoed along the short, pipe-lined passage. A lighted room waited at the end of the corridor, bathing the floor at the doorway in a hot red glow that reflected dully off pipes and water tanks.

Cautiously, Al stepped out into the boiler room.

The boiler itself resembled a gigantic cicada perched against the wall. More pipes and steam led around the far end of the room, puffing out its multitude of fragrances. A small maw of fire opened and shut, a narrow finger of the stone floor reaching toward it. Small black shapes moved steadily back and forth across that floor, carrying shiny black lumps to the maw and tossing them in before returning for more.

In front of the iron cicada, at a tall table, a black-haired man sat with his back to Alphonse. The opposite wall was covered in cupboards and drawers. As Al watched, the man ground up various ingredients with a mortar and pestle, dropping the resultant powder into receptacles in his workbench. As Alphonse watched, the man made a beckoning motion. One of the many drawers lining the walls floated to him. He reached in, grabbed what he wanted, and waved the box away. Alphonse stopped on the far side of the river of sootballs. It took him several minutes to pluck up his courage enough to speak. “Excuse me, uhm… Mister Boilerman?”

“Yes?” the man replied without so much as looking at Alphonse. He motioned out another jar from a different cupboard, impatiently guiding it around Al, never once turning around.

Alphonse swallowed. “I want you to give me a job.”

The boilerman didn’t reply. Al wasn’t sure if the man had heard him or not, but he didn’t want to insult him, so he waited patiently, watching the small black puffballs at their work.

One far smaller than the rest appeared from the holes at the floor. It carried a lump of coal at least three times its own size, and it was struggling with the coal. Alphonse watched the sootball meander its way across half the floor before it tripped, dropping its burden on its own body and trapping itself. The creature squeaked in distress, the lump of coal rocking and jumping as the puffball tried to free itself, but not falling away. Al tiptoed through the crowd over to it. He was in the middle of cautiously picking up the stone—surprisingly heavy for something about the size of his two clenched fists together—and trying to avoid further injuring the puffball when the man finally turned. The boilerman’s face was streaked with soot, not unhandsome but not human in some indiscernible way.

Al stared up at him questioningly. The man sighed. “Hayate, _again_?”

The small puffball popped up off the floor, squeaking loudly.

“What have I told you?” the boilerman asked. The puffball squeaked again. Eyes as black as the coal for the furnace turned on Alphonse this time. “Finish what you started, human.”

Al tiptoed through the crowd of watching black fluffballs. Sometimes he had to nudge the creatures aside with his toes; they fled backwards each time, squeaking with alarm.[1]

The closer he got to the clanging maw-hatch, the less Alphonse liked it. Heat blazed across his face as it clanged open and shut. Al stood in front of it for several seconds before mustering up the nerve to time his throw. He hurled the coal lump into the open hatch and scrambled backward, panting with the release of tension.

The other creatures, as soon as they saw him looking at them, dropped their burdens on their own heads and began to squeak in simulated distress.

“Hey!” the man exclaimed. “He’s not here to do your work for you. You don’t want to turn back into soot!” The man turned toward Alphonse. “You can’t just take someone else’s job. I have all the workers I need once I enchant the soot. There’s no work for you here.”

Al stared up at him, mouth open, coal still piled around his knees. “But he told me not to take no for an answer!”

There was a sharp rasp of wood as a panel was pushed open. “Dinner time,” a woman called, climbing through the open panel. Black curls were styled half-up and half-down across her shoulders. “Here you are, Flame. Where’s the bowl from yesterday?” The woman traded bowls with the man, turning to pick up her bucket and coming face-to-face with Alphonse. She gasped. “You! You’re the one everyone’s making such a fuss over.”

Flame set down his chopsticks. “He’s my grandson.” He made eye contact with Alphonse as he continued, “Says he wants to find a job here. Would you mind taking him upstairs, Catalina?”

Catalina shook her head emphatically. “With all that to-do? No way.”

Flame smirked, pulling something out of a drawer on his workbench. “So this smoked newt’s just going to waste, then? What a shame.” He winked at Alphonse.

“Fine. Give it here.” Catalina swiped the newt out of Flame’s hand. She tossed handfuls of small star-shaped candies to the sootballs; they leaped excitedly to catch as many as they could. Catalina finished throwing out the candies and picked up the bowl and bucket. “Come on, kid.” Al bowed and shuffled off his shoes. “Just leave those. You won’t need them. And don’t forget to thank the boilerman! He’s sticking out his neck for you, after all.”

Al bowed to the man. “Thank you, Mr. Flame.”

The man gave him a wry, not-quite-sad smile. “Good luck.”

Barefoot, Al followed Catalina out through the sliding panel and up several dingy flights of stairs. The bathhouse was by no means grimy but it had been there a long time, and more care was clearly devoted to the clients’ areas than the workers’. Finally they came out into a hallway and Catalina stepped into an elevator. “Fingers, toes and nose _inside_ the elevator,” she warned Alphonse. “Don’t want to lose them, do you?”

Silently, Al shook his head.

The elevator whirred upward. Al tried to breathe evenly. They switched elevators, to one that was much nicer. The elevator came to a stop again, but as the door opened they were confronted with a large white root-like shape. “The radish spirit,” Catalina said, between surprise and some other emotion. “I’m sorry, sir, but this elevator doesn’t go any higher.” She shepherded the spirit and Alphonse into another elevator.

“Catalina, there you are!” A frog-man came running up. “There you are. You’re late—” He sniffed, then frowned. “I smell human on you.”

“Keep dreaming, old man,” Catalina said. Al was glad that there was someone between them, even if it was another spirit.

“No, I’m sure of it. You know something, Catalina.”

“Hm. Is _this_ what you smell?” Catalina produced the newt.

“Smoked newt,” the frog-man gasped, reaching for it.

“Nuh-uh. That’s _mine._ And I’m saving every scrap for myself.” Catalina half-turned to Alphonse, making eye contact. “Keep going up. Don’t take no for an answer!”

Alphonse pushed past the radish spirit just enough to pull the lever to operate the elevator. Still squashed in behind the spirit, they continued to ascend. The elevator paused again on another floor. This time, the radish spirit pulled the lever for Al.

Finally they arrived at the top floor—lavishly decorated in a completely different style from the bathhouse. The clients’ floors had been decorated in a traditional Japanese style; this area looked more European, almost like Russian architecture during the time of the tsars. The radish spirit stepped out of the elevator and allowed Al out, bowed to him, and pulled the lever to go back down. Al fortunately remembered to bow back. Then, with the elevator doors closed behind him, his last retreat cut off, Al turned to the doors in front of him.

The knocker was shaped like a lion with a ball in its mouth. On second glance, the rays on it probably were designed to represent the sun. Al reached up to grip the knocker, but was startled by a voice. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it, and it was precise, emotionless and cold. “Don’t hesitate like that, human child. You’re wasting my time.” The door opened and Al was grabbed by an unseen hand. He was dragged rapidly forward by the front of his now dirty and wrinkled shirt, a series of ornate doors slamming and locking behind him. The invisible grip suddenly dropped him and Al tumbled to the floor, dizzy and disoriented.

Slowly he pushed himself up and took in his surroundings. It was an office—a fireplace behind him and a comfortable sitting room with a desk at the far side of the room.

A man was sitting at the desk and writing. Al took a step forward. “Sir, please give me a job. I want to work.”

“Don’t waste my time, child.” The man looked up at him, face blank of emotion. “What use is your work to me?”

“I’d work hard,” Alphonse said. “Please give me a job.”

The man looked critically at him. “You think you’d make a nice cat, don’t you? But really you’d let the mice run free and spoil the kitchens completely. Soft-hearted. Maybe you’d make a better piece of coal.”

“I just want a job.” Al said. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by this stranger, not when he’d come so far for this.

“Don’t say that!” the man spat, pressing his hand down on the pile of paper on his desk. Despite his best efforts, a slip of paper escaped, followed by a pen. Angrily the man stood. “Fine. Sign your name away. I’ll work you to the bone.”

Al took a deep breath and signed the paper. He handed it back to the man, who read it. “So your name is Alphonse, then.” He paused. “Or, it _was_. From now on, you’ll be called Aral. Ward!”

The boy from before stepped into the room. “Yes, Father.”

“We’ll discuss the consequences of your meddling and trickery later. For now, take Aral down and assign his duties.”

Ward made a curt bow, then turned to Aral. “Follow me.”

As they entered the elevator, Aral asked, “Did I get you in trouble? I’m sorry, Ward—”

“You don’t have the right to take responsibility for what I choose to do,” Ward said, voice emotionless. “And you should get used to calling me ‘ _Master_ Ward.’”

“Master of what?”

“My own folly, apparently.” He didn’t speak again as they descended to the bathhouse proper.

[1] “You KICK Hayate? You KICK his body like the football? OH! OH! JAIL FOR ALPHONSE! JAIL FOR ALPHONSE FOR ONE THOUSAND YEARS!”


	2. The Dragon Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aral assumes his new duties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild, non-graphic torture warning, courtesy of JustAnotherGhostwriter. Without them, I wouldn't have written that part. I still don't know if it really fits with the story. Might take it out later, depending.

“We don’t want him in the kitchen,” one of the frog-men said.

“Certainly not in our department!” a newt-woman sniffed. They were all clustered far too close for comfort. There were too _many_ of them. Aral tried not to draw in on himself. “He’ll stink up the place,” the woman continued.

“Three days of eating our food, and he won’t smell human any more,” Ward said sharply. “And you all know how Father deals with slackers.”

The crowd drew back nervously.

Catalina sighed dramatically. “All right, all right!” She pushed her way through the crowd. “I’ll take him.”

Ward nodded. He turned silently and walked away; the crowd parted before him as if his touch would burn them.

“Wait,” Aral protested. Ward didn’t stop. His gait didn’t even hitch.

Catalina caught Aral’s eye to give him a sympathetic look. “Don’t waste your breath on him, kid. Come on.”

* * *

Ward followed Father into the office. “Shut the door behind you,” Father said. Ward closed the door.

Before he had time to prepare or react, Ward choked on the thick, pitch-black syrup that flowed from his mouth, shaping itself into vines and binding his limbs tightly to his sides.

“You foresaw this, didn’t you,” Father said, his voice cold.

The last of the ooze ripped itself free from Ward’s throat and he coughed and choked. Father was waiting for a response. It wouldn’t do to keep him waiting. “I didn’t,” Ward croaked.

The vines tightened. Ward’s ribs creaked. He dangled in midair, helpless. “Don’t lie to me, boy,” Father said in a low voice, devoid of emotion. “Don’t forget how I took you in when you had lost your home.”

Rather than exhaling, Ward forced himself to breathe in rather than let the vines tighten more and constrict him. “You just didn’t expect my contingencies to ever take effect,” he gasped out, trying to conserve air. His head pounded with the effort of fighting the urge to exhale and the reduced oxygen.

“You tricked me into that promise, Ward.” The voice was flat and low.

“It wouldn’t bind you if I had,” Ward whispered. The vines crawled around him, tighter and tighter.

“What good can it possibly do you to protect a stranger?” Father said, crossing in front of him to the desk. “Or perhaps you only do it to spite me…”

The vines finally forced the last of the breath from Ward’s lungs. _I’m dying. I’m dead_. His head whirled in a numb panic, blinded. Then the tangle released and Ward sucked in air. The vines cut their way back into him, back to where they’d come from. He would’ve screamed, but he didn’t have the breath. Ward rolled onto his side, blinking back the tears, refusing to let Father see. “Spite you? Never,” he gasped.

The tone was unmistakably sarcastic.

“Maybe I should take your voice for this,” Father said thoughtfully. “You don’t need it to serve me.”

Ward curled in on himself, too sick to rise to the bait. _Please, no. Not before I can tell Alphonse what he needs to know. To remember_.

“Think about that next time,” Father said coldly. He gestured with one hand, tossing Ward onto a stray cushion in the corner. Almost against his own will, Ward slid into a disturbed mockery of sleep.

* * *

“Here’s your futon. It’s going to take me a minute to find a uniform that’ll fit you…” Catalina dropped the bedroll into Aral’s arms and took a step back, sizing him up. “At least it won’t be impossible to find one that would fit you.” She turned toward the closet and began to sort through a pile of tunics. “It’ll be your responsibility to keep your uniform clean and pressed.” She dumped a pile of salmon-colored fabric on top of the bedroll in Aral’s arms. “Here you are. Go ahead and change. You won’t need your old clothes any more.”

Aral hesitantly looked down at his outfit—a t-shirt under a button-down that he’d left unbuttoned, khakis. It was strikingly similar to one he’d had and loved when he was small.

“It’s not as if anything stays really private here anyway,” Catalina said, looking him over. Aral blushed. He still turned away to change.

“Is there something wrong with Ward?” he asked, trying to arrange his sleeves back into order.

Catalina tugged the belt straight. “Something wrong with _him_?” she echoed. “Don’t waste your pity on him, Aral. He’s Father’s right hand. Does whatever Father tells him to.”

“I don’t know,” Aral said thoughtfully as Catalina straightened the sleeves. “He seems to be sort of… trapped.”

“I’ll give you some advice,” Catalina said, poking Aral in the center of his chest. “Stay out of their business. Save yourself the heartbreak.”

Aral sighed.

“There. You look presentable enough, I suppose. Polish yourself up just like that tomorrow. No one’s got time to straighten your collar for you once the work day starts. Now go get some sleep.”

Aral took the back corner of the room; Catalina shuffled around her other workers to fit. Everyone else in Catalina’s department were women; however, no one seemed to care about the lone teenage boy in their midst.

With the newness of the situation, Aral should’ve struggled to fall asleep; however, he dozed off surprisingly quickly.

* * *

Halfway between sleep and wakefulness, Aral heard feather-light footsteps as someone made the slow, deliberate walk toward him, avoiding treading on the sleeping workers. The steps were so light that when they paused, Aral thought he’d imagined them—until an equally light touch ghosted across his hair. “Meet me at the bridge,” a quiet voice intoned. Then the presence was gone.

Aral turned over, sleepily disregarding the strange dream.

Then the meaning of the words struck him. He sat bolt upright, the only one awake in the room of sleepers.

Hurriedly but still as quietly as he could manage, Aral got dressed and tiptoed over the bright patchwork of quilts that covered the floor. He followed the wall to the sliding door panel.

He followed the stairs down. No one else seemed to be up yet after the late night of work. The bathhouse seemed completely different from the previous night. Instead of brilliant candlelight, cooler rising dawn light flooded through exterior doors and windows; quiet ruled the still passages. Not wanting to wake anyone, Aral avoided the elevators, instead taking the stairs down. There were a lot of stairs.

He passed through the panel to the boiler room. Flame was asleep on a futon next to his station. His quilt had slid down over his shoulder, exposing his back to the chilly air. Carefully, Aral pulled the cover back over the boilerman.

The great boiler was quiet, fires low and banked, exuding only a mild warmth in place of the humid heat from last night. The soot sprites peered from their holes at the base of the far wall. Aral waved to them.

The sootballs appeared to look left and right before they tiptoed from their refuge. Between them they carried his shoes, his socks still tucked inside.

“Thank you,” Aral whispered. He pocketed the socks and slid his feet into the shoes. He carefully settled his feet in before running across the floor. The soot sprites followed him to the edge of the room, hesitating at the threshold as Aral entered the passage. Aral glanced over his shoulder as he opened the outer door. The soot sprites bounded into the air excitedly, squeaking in an undertone. Aral waved to them, then ducked around the door and outside into the warming sun of a bright summer morning.

The stairs didn’t look nearly as daunting now, going up in the bright morning light, as they had going down last night in the dark. Aral still wasn’t keen on falling over the edge. He scampered up the steps on all fours like a spider. It still took some time (and a few pauses for a rest, well away from the range of vision of any windows) to climb them all. During one of his pauses, Aral sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, surveying the view. There were other flat-topped hills, though most of the buildings seemed to be built on an angle; a ridged tin roof reflected the morning sun and what looked like crops in the distance were planted on the flat area. Beyond the fields, the strange terrain seemed to drop away, completely sheer.

Finally Aral made his way up to the level of the bridge once more. He opened the back gate of the small garden to the side of the bridge and walked through it. The gravel path crunched softly underfoot; the flowers seemed to shine in the morning light—a small ornamental maple tree, large flowering bushes, all in perfect order and symmetry. Flower-arranging was an art. Planting gardens must be one as well.

Aral opened the gate next to the bridge and stepped through, closing it carefully behind him. Sure enough, Ward waited at the far end of the bridge. Aral started toward him. The same masked, half-transparent figure he had seen last night in crossing over stood at the arch of the bridge, as if it hadn’t moved all night. Respectfully, Aral bowed slightly in passing to the spirit, then hurried to Ward.

As soon as he saw that Aral was there, Ward opened the gate to the garden they’d passed through last night to get to the bridge. They followed a path lined with azaleas, their limbs bowing under the weight of thousands of double lilac and rose blooms, far taller than either of the boys.

Under a strand of bamboo, Ward stopped. He turned around. There was a packet and a box in his hands. He held out the packet to Aral. “Here. This is yours.”

Aral turned it over. “My clothes—” They’d been washed and folded. “When did you have the time to do thi—” A small sheet of heavy notepaper fluttered to the ground. Aral bent and picked it up. “The note from Mom! I almost forgot.” He unfolded it. Somehow, he had to get out of the bathhouse and go to find Hohenheim. He skimmed the directions, even though he knew them all by heart already.

Then he found the part which he should have known by heart, but didn’t. “Alphonse. That’s… my name, isn’t it?” Alphonse looked at Ward, hoping for any change in expression that would tell him what the other boy was thinking. There was introspection in Ward’s face, and something sadder. “I forgot it…” Alphonse trailed away. He had almost become Aral—Aral, and _nothing more_.

“That’s how Father keeps us all under his thumb,” Ward said softly. “He takes your name to take your freedom. Keep the note close, keep it hidden, and don’t forget.” Ward looked away, golden hair shifting like a veil to cover his face. “I’ve tried for years to remember my name. There’s nothing I want more than to leave here, but I can’t… not without my name.”

“I’m sorry,” Alphonse said.

Ward shrugged. “That’s the way of the house. They take things they have no right to, to keep you here and mold you into the shape they want. You have to stay yourself underneath. Though I haven’t found a way of doing that… How can I be myself if I don’t know who I am?” There was frustration in the voice, but when Al looked up Ward’s face had shifted back to apathy. “Anyway, I brought you breakfast. You’ll need all the energy you can get.” He opened the box and unwrapped a rice cake, handing it, still in the wrapper, to Alphonse.

As he ate, Alphonse began to sob. Ward was a comforting, solid presence at his side. The rice cake tasted plain, but there was something else to the flavor that didn’t taste like spices, a fresh, sharp taste, not unpleasant. Al finished eating and rubbed his eyes, wiping the tears away. He swallowed. “You knew my name… How did you know it?”

Ward looked down. “There’s a lot of things I don’t remember. But I do remember _you_ , somehow. I’ve known you for a long time.”

Alphonse nodded. “Is that man your father? You called him ‘Father,’ but everyone here seems to do that.”

Ward shook his head. “I doubt it. If he is my father, he certainly plays favorites. He has a child—he treats the boy differently. I’m just a tool to him, not a son.”

“Then why do you call him ‘Father’? Why does everyone?” Al frowned, confused.

“The first law of magic is that names have meaning. They also have power. Perhaps Father is running from his name as well.”

Alphonse nodded. That made sense—as much as anything here did.

It was a completely different world.

“You took the long way around to get here, didn’t you,” Ward said. Al nodded again. Ward stood up. “I’ll show you a quicker way. You’ll do better here if you know how to get around the bathhouse without being seen. That’s the whole illusion of the place, after all.” He led Al back toward the bridge and across it, turning to the right this time. A narrow path, almost invisible when approaching the front entrance, led to a side door, which opened on an unpainted wooden passage that twisted and turned back to the passage outside the staff room. Alphonse turned to say goodbye to Ward, but the other boy was already gone. The outer door panel was open and Al ran to the railing. In the distance, just above the horizon, a dragon wound and danced through the sky like a ribbon of gold unfurling, light catching and glinting on distant scales as the dragon weaved his path away from the bathhouse.

That golden ribbon tugged at something in Al’s memory, but it stayed stubbornly out of reach. It was gone before he could quite catch up with it. Alphonse looked down at his folded pile of clothing, his tennis shoes on top of them. He made up his mind in a moment and turned back towards the boiler room.

It still seemed that no one else was up; Al easily made his way down through gaily (and gaudily) painted rooms, through unpainted and rough-hewn ones; down back stairways, through stained and rusted iron doors and down to the boiler room. The soot sprites stirred at his return. He set down his pile of clothing and his shoes with them. “Will you take care of these for me?” he whispered. The puffballs winked and blinked in reply.

Alphonse leaned back against the cabinets to rest his head for a few moments. He hadn’t slept that well; he was still tired. It was almost sad, he thought, how the sootballs couldn’t talk… couldn’t leave… couldn’t stop working, or they’d turn back into mere soot.

A few minutes later, when Flame got up to sweep out the vents and light the fires, he found Al leaning back against the cabinets, breathing soft but deep. A rare smile crossed Flame’s face and he picked up the comforter from his corner and shifted it over Alphonse.

* * *

“Where were you this morning?” Catalina asked, plumping down a basket of laundry on the walkway next to them and beginning to string the sheets, towels and dressing gowns out to dry.

Al shrugged, picking up the end of a clothesline. “I needed some fresh air, so I stepped outside.”

“Hm. Well, the workday’s started now, and your breaks are when I say so. Got that?” Al nodded. Catalina grinned. “Good.”

They got down to work, cleaning the bathhouse in preparation for the next night. Al joined Catalina’s group in scrubbing one of the steam rooms clean. He scrubbed the floor, watching Catalina’s girls fly by, bent double, out of the corner of his eye.

“Move it, human! We’ll never get done at this rate!”

Al gritted his teeth and tried to work faster.

At about midmorning, while Al had moved on to waxing the floor he’d just scrubbed, Ward appeared at the door, followed by Flame. “Catalina, Aral, let’s go. We need to pick up supplies.”

Flame tossed a pair of geta and a basket to Alphonse; he caught the basket and one sandal, but fumbled the other. One of Catalina’s girls tittered. Alphonse shoved his feet into the geta, his face burning. Ward led their little group through the bathhouse and down to the bridge.

While the bridge was still deserted, the streets of the town were bustling with a multitude of shapes—shadows, robes in every color, masks of varying shape and materials. Ward led them toward a different area of the town from the one Alphonse had walked up through the other day. Rather than the rows of restaurants the other route boasted, this street was lined with other shops and market stalls.

“We _can’t_ be shopping for food,” Al commented. “There’s no way four of us could possibly bring back everything the kitchens would need…”

“We’re not,” Ward said.

Flame looked over his shoulder, still walking. “My last order of herbals and minerals got mixed up. Parts of it were very poor quality—the minerals were impure, some of the herbs were not actually dry, dried at too high a heat, or even damp and moldy. I’m not making that mistake again,” Flame said.

“I need materials, too,” Ward said. Was it just Alphonse’s imagination, or did he look drawn and tired? “Keep up.”

He led them to an apothecary shop; the dried herbs, roots, flowers, stems, leaves and berries displayed in large, covered glass jars. Flame beckoned to Alphonse. “Come with me.” He moved among the shelves, examining the product for sale. Every so often, he’d lift the lid on a jar and sniff the contents experimentally or pinch and roll some plant matter between his fingers.

They were deep into the shop with its dark wood walls and shelving and its smell of dried spices and sharp, bitter herbs when Flame broke the silence. “Do you care about Ward, Aral?” His voice was jarringly calm, compared to the underlying intensity of his gaze.

Al was taken off guard. “I guess so… and my real name is Alphonse, not Aral.”

Flame nodded. “You still remember your true name. That’s good. You still have a chance. Be cautious who you give it to. If I had been the foreman… well, you’d be in for it now.”

“You spoke up for me,” Al said. “So did Ward. He’s the one who told me to ask you for a job, to protect me.”

“There’s more to him than meets the eye,” Flame said. “I remember when he first came to the bathhouse. He was maybe five years old when Father brought him there. He gave out that Ward was a charity case, someone with nowhere else to go. A lot of us doubted it at the time. The next thing we knew, Ward was apprenticed to Father. Some of the workers thought he was some illegitimate child or nephew of Father’s, but… I’ve always thought it was something else.”

“What do you mean?” Alphonse asked, shifting the basket on his arm and leaning closer.

“He was so obviously a gifted child,” Flame said quietly.

“Why didn’t you do something?”

Flame shrugged. “The bath house is full of people with nowhere else to go.” He rifled through a shelf filled with packets of dried flower petals. “Well, that’s all of it. All of it that we can buy here, anyway.” He dropped a packet into Al’s basket. “We’ll have to go elsewhere for the rest.” He led Al up to the counter to count and pay for their purchases.

Ward and Catalina were already there, waiting for them. To Al’s surprise, Catalina’s basket was nearly as full as Al’s. “Do you need anything else, Flame?” Ward asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Flame replied. “They don’t have much of a selection of minerals, clays or salts. Still… depending on the state of their warehouse, I might change part of my weekly order to here.” Flame turned to the masked spirit—the style of kimono appeared feminine, but Alphonse couldn’t be sure—who was busy packing up their purchases and inquired, “Might we inspect your warehouse?”

The spirit looked up, eyes unseen behind the mask. “Of course, sir,” they said in a voice like the rustle of long-dried fallen leaves. They finished tying up the packages and left those with Al and Catalina while the spirit walked around the counter and led Ward and Flame out a side door to see the warehouse.

“Did you have a nice heart-to-heart with the boiler man?” Catalina inquired, leaning her elbow on the glossy, dark wood counter.

Al shrugged. He wasn’t sure it was a good idea to tell Catalina his name, after what Flame had told him—not that he thought Catalina would betray him, but on second thoughts, a name seemed like a precious, perhaps even a dangerous thing. Besides, it was nice to have something that was still his own, which he still had power over.

“Catalina, have you ever heard of a man called Van Hohenheim?” Alphonse asked suddenly.

Catalina tilted her head on one side, thinking. “Can’t say that I have. Are you looking for him?”

Al shrugged. “That idea sort of went out the window when I signed my contract, Cat.”

For a moment, Catalina looked startled at having been given a nickname. Her lips slowly curled into a smirk. “Sassy. I like it.” She punched his shoulder, maybe a little harder than Al would’ve done. “Don’t let them take that from you, kid.”

A few minutes later, Ward and Flame returned from the warehouse. Flame wrote out his partial order and tried to link arms with Ward, who seemed unimpressed. They headed back toward the front of the shop, where the warm red-and-yellow light from stained glass lit the shelves, then back out into the street.

They continued down the street. Alphonse stared around—even if this street was less openly glamorous than the one he’d come up the other day, it was still beautiful and busy and wonderful. High tiled roofs with elegant curves, red-painted balustrades, and beautiful patterned cobblestones were still very much in evidence.

Most interesting of all were the inhabitants. The longer he was here, the less Alphonse saw the shapeless gray forms of undifferentiated spirits—now, they were a riot of robes of all colors, shapes and sizes. Some of them Al recognized from the legends and fairy tales Mom had told him every night before bed. Others were strange to him.

Al was surprised that he didn’t find his new surroundings so alarming. Rather than fear, he felt little thrills of excitement and awe. There was something deeply familiar about the place, something nostalgic, flitting just beyond memory…

Ward turned into another shop. “Here we are. Flame, I’ll be looking at metals if you want me. Aral, you’re with me.”

Al was expecting some continuation of a conversation as soon as the other boy led them away from Catalina and Flame. However, there was silence for quite some time as Ward looked over pieces of ore and picked up the occasional jagged shard to examine it. Al leaned over to watch what he was doing. Ward looked up, his expression irritated, but it quickly smoothed into something milder. “Curious?” he asked.

“What are we looking at?” Al asked.

“I’m trying to find the pieces with the least obnoxious impurities. I can work with impurities, but some are harder to refine away than others.”

Al did his best, but he was used to powders in the chemistry lab and biology homework, not raw ore. Even with Ward’s pointers, he struggled.

Ward picked up yet another rough fragment. “See how pitted this is? It would be just fine for forging weapons, since that’s a longer, more intensive process, but simple reshaping won’t be enough to make it useful.”

Alphonse hazarded a question. “Ward. What, exactly, is it you do?”

Ward gave a bitter laugh. “I run. I fetch. Sometimes I even roll over. All depends on Father’s orders. I try to keep him from kicking anyone other than me. I know he’s using me for my talent, but I don’t exactly have anywhere else to go.”

Al’s jaw dropped. “He _kicks_ you?”

“Not literally. He’s too cold and distant a man for that.”

Al reached out and caught the edge of Ward’s sleeve. “Please, I want to help you.”

Ward sighed. “It’s not as if I’m under a curse you can break, Prince Charming.” He gently pulled his sleeve away and moved down the aisle, reaching for another rough stone.

Al caught his arm halfway. “What’s wrong with your—”

The words fell away into silence. That wasn’t skin.

“You can see through the glamours, then.” Ward said quietly and nodded deliberately. Al let him go, not knowing why he did. Ward passed his left hand over his right arm. Al blinked.

The arm was made out of a metal that looked like bronze. Slowly, Ward opened and closed the fingers with a series of soft metallic _clicks_.

“What _happened_?”

Ward shrugged. “I’ve had these as long as I can remember.”

“These?”

“My left leg, too.”

Al swallowed, his gaze riveted on Ward’s arm. It was beautifully made, but… how had he lost his original arm?

“Don’t give me that look,” Ward growled, baring teeth that looked just a little too sharp to be human. “I don’t want or need your pity.”

“That’s not what I—!”

Ward pulled away, the mirage over his arm shimmering back into place. “Forget it.” He hurried down the next aisle and Al followed, stumbling slightly over an uneven spot in the floor.

“Ward, I didn’t mean—”

“I said _forget it_ ,” Ward ground out.

“You don’t have to be so rude!” Al snapped. “I’m trying to help you!”

“Well, _don’t_.”

“I bet this is how you treated Flame when he tried to help you, too.”

“I told you I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Fine!” Al snapped. “I don’t care. I’m not the one missing most of my memory and half my limbs!”

“You _could_ be.” Ward hissed. His tone left Al speechless, though it wasn’t a threat.

Ward tugged his uniform straight and went on ahead. They continued in silence for a while.

“By the way,” Al said, “do you know a man called Hohenheim?”

The name had an odd effect on Ward. A shiver ran through him, but his expression was blank and confused as he turned briefly toward Al and shook his head. Al sighed. “Never mind.”

They returned to the front of the store with a small selection of minerals piled in Al’s basket. Ward’s face had gone back to its stony blank cast as he paid for them. Catalina nudged Al’s arm as he picked up the package of purchases. “Did you two fight?” she asked.

Al shook his head. “Somehow I feel like a fight with Ward would be much more serious.”

Catalina flicked her hair out of her face. “Well, it’s none of my business. This was fun! It’s nice to get out of the bathhouse every now and again.” She scooted one of the packages from their previous stop along the floor with her toe. “We should brace ourselves for a hard afternoon’s work. Flame will need extra help to get the boilers cleaned and maintained in time for tonight. We’ll pay for our pleasant outing in aching backs and faces full of soot this afternoon, you mark my words.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and happy October 3!
> 
> A few notes about the names--in _Spirited Away_ , "Chihiro" ("thousand questions") becomes "Sen" ("one thousand") when Yubaba takes two of the three kanji from her name. Unfortunately, in English, there's no easy way to do this. However, I already had an idea for what to do about the names from trivia on Fullmetal Alchemist. "Al" is pronounced "Aru" in the original Japanese version; "Aru" sounds like the Japanese pronoun for an inanimate object (the translation of "it," basically), which fits symbolically with how Father views him in this fic. I messed with how to pronounce and spell it so it wouldn't look odd in English and came up with "Aral."
> 
> For Ed, I chose to go with "Ward" on a suggestion from a friend. "Ward" is the second syllable in "Edward" and it can mean "to protect," or it can mean someone under someone else's protection--someone who they aren't free to leave. It lacks the individuality of "Fullmetal" as well. Again, the name robs Ed of part of his identity and places him in Father's power.
> 
> Roy is "Flame" because for him, his title was always part of the leash he was on. Rebecca is "Catalina" because we don't know as much about her and no one would know who she was if I got more creative about it.


End file.
